


I Came In Through the Window Last Night

by CharleyFoxtrot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aromantic!Natasha, Drinking Contest, Gen, M/M, Nat/Steve BrOTP, Sam/Bucky kinda, Steve Rogers POV, Thor being a fucker, asexual!Steve, ignores anything after the Civil War movie, nebulous future where everything is fixed, same-sex wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 16:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11924343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/CharleyFoxtrot
Summary: If the President invites you to her wedding, you kind ofhaveto go.ORSteve and Thor mediate the world’s weirdest drinking contest, and Steve is the best designated driverever.





	I Came In Through the Window Last Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IgnisAlis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnisAlis/gifts).



> Gift-fic for IgnisAlis, who requested I use one of the first three prompts from [this post](http://imondeckyeahimupnext.tumblr.com/post/119043365231/aus-for-when-both-members-of-your-otp-are-stubborn). As you can see, I sort of blended the second two around. Hope you like it!
> 
> Title is from the song My Own Worst Enemy by LIT.

A man had his limits. Limits to what he would put up with, or what he _could_ put up with. That was brought about the big divide between Tony and Steve; what had split the Avengers up in the first place. 

It was also what’d led to a young Steven Rogers fighting playground bullies despite his stature and getting creamed nearly every time; what had led a young James Barnes to stand beside him.

It was what eventually led to Steve’s public statement about the Accords, safe in Wakanda; what finally spurred the public into demanding the full text of them; what finally made the UN go over them with a fine-toothed comb.

Apparently, Captain America having a Problem with something made the public _reconsider_ shit. This turned out to be a pretty good thing. The fact-checkers realized quickly that the Accords were _seriously_ screwed up, granting the Altered Humans Commission an almost unlimited amount of power with little to no oversight. Hence the treatment Bucky endured during his captivity, _all_ of which went against the Geneva Convention.

Even _Tony_ realized how fucked the Accords were, once he read them through (overnight, because Tony just _did shit_ like that). Eventually he even looked into the Winter Soldier program, with some stealthy aid on the part of Nat (who also told him about the Red Room in a way Tony described as, “Robotic and creepy,”), and then he’d made the call.

The one that put him into contact with Steve to bury the hatchet, and not into Bucky’s skull. The call that made them a force to be reckoned with and allowed them to actually take the reigns on re-writing the Accords -- _together_. The call that, _finally_ , made them friends. They both still smarted from the whole thing, but they trusted each other, _implicitly_ , and that was better than they’d ever been.

It helped that T’Challa and Tony were both bona-fide geniuses; Tony had to get over the fact that he wasn’t always necessarily the smartest person in the room anymore, but eventually the two of them agreed to collaborate. Between Tony’s weird amalgamation of science and psychology, and T’Challa’s access to resources and brilliance in the field of engineering, Steve had Bucky (mostly) back. Steve got the feeling it was Tony’s weird way of saying sorry to Steve, because he still didn’t much like Bucky.

Not that Steve could blame him. After all, a man had his limits. That Tony was willing to work with and tolerate Bucky was more than Steve had ever expected.

It was the closest thing to a happy ending he could have imagined. Unfortunately, it led to situations like this, because the Avengers had a decent approval rating but they also had to maintain a public presence that was _strictly_ guided by PR representatives. 

The public re-grouping of the Avengers, after _lots_ of research on T’Challa’s end and even _more_ therapy on both Tony and Steve’s parts, meant that they, as a group, were a _hugely_ public presence. Any time anything major happened -- good or bad -- they were _there_. They answered to the UN, but they weren’t treated like something Other, either.

But once again, a man had his limits.

“What the _hell_ are we listening to?” he hissed to Nat, who was dancing with him because she was his date to this godforsaken wedding. Whatever the hell was being piped over the speakers was worse than being stuck in Wakanda for a year and a half, sitting on his thumbs and not being able to jump in and help when shit went to hell. Honestly, he could _curse_ Tony for finding a ready excuse to bow out early. Bruce, of course, had a perfectly good reason to decline, which was that he could turn into the Hulk if they popped the champagne without warning.

Steve Rogers, contrary to popular belief, didn’t actually _dislike_ this era’s music. Some of it didn’t sit easy with him, but he had a fondness for certain kinds of hip-hop and pop music, and there was something about punk rock that he _really_ enjoyed even if the music itself didn’t jive with his sensibilities.

Nat tried to startle him with “Anaconda” the other day and got the surprise of her _life_ when Steve started singing along with it, down to the fast rap in the middle. (Bucky and Sam thought this was _hilarious_ and Bucky made sure to get pictures of the expression on Nat’s face. Sam, who had a vicious mean streak in him despite the fact that he was one of Steve’s three best friends, just recorded the whole thing and put it up on Instagram.) There was now a tentative truce struck up between Nat, Bucky, and Sam, all in the name of trying to shock Steve into reacting to some sort of music. They had, apparently, chosen the wrong genre to focus on.

Because _nothing_ excused what he was hearing right now. 

“ _Really_?” Nat asked, eyebrow arched. “You like Nicki Minaj and the Distillers, but _Nickelback_ is where you draw the line?”

“I like _some_ of their stuff,” Steve said, defensively, carefully guiding her across the dance floor. “But this is the cheesiest bunch of bull--”

“Language,” Nat reminded him, humor in her eyes, and Steve rolled his because he was never, _ever_ going to be allowed to forget that, not even three or so years later.

 _“Stop breathin’ if I don’t seeeeee you anymooooore,”_ the singer crooned. Steve kind of wished he’d brought his shield with him -- he could take out all eight of the speakers in the room in under a minute, had it all planned out in his head within seconds. 

“I cannot believe I _voted_ for her,” Steve whispered, his voice heated. “I voted for her and this is how she repays me, by making me listen to _this_.” He spun Nat around the dance floor, almost absently, letting muscle memory take over. He knew that some paparazzi or other was going to get pictures of them together and speculate, but that kept people off their backs anyway.

Nat had absolutely _zero_ interest in romance these days, her fascination with Bruce having come to an abrupt end when he came back to them with a woman from Brazil who’d helped save his life at some point in his past.

It’d hurt her, but it also made her realize ,after a _lot_ of therapy, that she formed attachments to men who were completely unavailable to her for a _reason_. (The therapy was actually the UN’s fault. Almost everyone in the Avengers was forced to go to therapy on the regular. Except Clint. Clint, for some reason, was the sanest of all of them, which honestly terrified Steve sometimes.)

Nat was Steve’s friend, one of the best, so he went to the Internet and began digging, and he found a word that made all the difference -- _aromantic_. It was like a revelation, knowing that the Red Room hadn’t broken her, that she was just _different_ , that she wasn’t some sort of _monster_. 

His searching had also led to the word _asexual_ , which answered a lot of questions about his and Bucky’s relationship back then, so he bonded with her over that particular eye-opener.

The general lack of knowledge about this made it easy for them to avoid questions about dates and their love lives; the world seemed _convinced_ they were an item, and it worked well for fending off unwanted advances. Very few men were willing to approach the attractive but deadly Black Widow when it was _also_ backed up with the public belief that she was dating Captain America. The reverse was true as well -- women generally wouldn’t try to compete for Steve’s attention against a woman who’s stilettos contained _actual stiletto knives_.

“You voted for her because she supported universal healthcare,” Nat reminded him. The song, thank _God_ , ended, and the two of them separated before heading toward their table (the one the Avengers had all been seated at, together and prominently. The President’s PR team was _good_ ). 

“And yet, Congress is still debating it,” Steve said, mournfully. President Gonzales was not only the first Latina president and first female president, but she was also the first _queer_ president, openly bisexual and proud. She was as progressive as they came, and Steve liked that. 

But if the President invites you to her wedding, you kind of _have_ to go. _Especially_ when she’s marrying a woman, and you’ve gone on the record as a group supporting queer rights. Holding the invitation in his hand, Clint had taken the time to remind everyone that while he’d _understood_ why they’d decided to do it as a group, he’d _also_ said it would come back to bite them in the ass some day, and that this was that day. Then he’d set the invite down on the counter and walked back toward the archery range, chuckling under his breath, while everyone else stared at the piece of paper like it was poisonous.

Steve liked Stephanie, the President’s now-wife. He worked with both of them closely, of course; Stephanie was on the UN commission that dealt with superpowered humans and aliens, and the President was sort of his _boss_ when it came to US-based operations. He’d watched, over the last two years, the two of them fall in love. Same-sex marriage had been legalized four years ago, so it was only a matter of time. And inviting them made sense on more levels than one.

The Avengers being there was simultaneously a political move, a PR stunt, and extra security. Steve couldn’t believe that in 2018, a _hundred years after he’d been born_ ( _God_ , he was old), with the US progressive enough to elect a _queer Latina woman_ to the highest office in the land, that hate groups still had the gall to send hate mail and threats. It was a mid-term election year, and Ronni Gonzales was running for a second term in 2020, so the wedding, while genuine, was _also_ something of a publicity ploy for queer and POC rights.

Thank God that Stephanie loved her. Because once again, a man -- or in this case, a very powerful and dangerous woman who had access to nuclear launch codes -- had limits.

He sighed and sat down, Nat sinking into the chair to his right, between him and Clint. Thor was talking to the archer, his hands animated and waving to demonstrate his point, something involving archery on Asgard. This apparently included arrowheads forged in the hearts of stars, and _magic_ , and Steve was absolutely _not_ okaying this, because he _knew_ Clint was going to try to requisition Asgardian arrow tips now.

“Where’s Laura?” Nat interrupted. Clint jumped; despite how long he and Nat had been working together, she could still sneak up on him, like some sort of deadly predator. That Steve could do the same was the reason Clint cited for losing his hair.

“She, Jane, and Darcy decided that because they’re the only ‘normal’ people at this table,” and Clint actually made the air quotes, which never failed to make Steve chuckle to himself, “that they’d go offer congratulations to the newlyweds. I think Darcy and Laura want to talk poli-sci at Stephanie, and Jane wants to pimp her proposal for NASA’s budget increase.” He gestured toward the center of the room, where the five women were clustered together. Ronni and Stephanie were clutching hands but paying attention to two totally separate conversations.

Steve didn’t think they were talking about political science or NASA; Stephanie seemed to be querying Darcy on where she purchased her underthings, if their gesturing was anything to go by, and Ronni was listening, rapt, as Jane and Laura described some sort of escapade that most likely involved the Avengers themselves. It could also be a totally inappropriate re-tell of the last Christmas party; the Avengers had not been the ones disgracing themselves _there_. Either way, it was hard to discern what they were discussing.

“Darcy just told Stephenie never to shop at Victoria’s Secret,” Nat said, squinting at the pair from across the reception hall. “I _don’t_ think they’re talking about political science.”

Clint shrugged, trusting Nat’s lip-reading, and took another drink, pushing food around on his plate. Dinner had concluded over an hour ago, but waitstaff were wandering around with _hors d'oeuvres_ , and Clint seemed to be continually filling his plate (he’d refused to hand it over after dinner) from their platters. For such a small man, he really knew how to pack it away; Steve was honestly surprised that he was already running out of appetite.

Nat picked up on this too, grinning at her friend. “Full already?”

Clint snorted and shoved some sort of shrimp puff into his mouth. “I was _taking a break_. Gotta build a solid base for my drinking. They have an _open bar_ , Nat. At a _political event._ This is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You have a wife and three children,” Nat reminded him, her voice wry. “And this is a _wedding_.”

“Look, it’s not like I’m not _happy_ for them, you know?” Clint said, gesturing toward the President and her new wife. “But you know _damn_ well that when one of the most powerful leaders of the world gets gay-married that’s a political statement, too, so _that_ makes _this_ a political event.” He emphasized his point by shoving another shrimp puff inside his mouth, chewing noisily. He only ever really did that to annoy Nat; the two were like brother and sister, constantly finding new ways to needle each other.

“And yet, the open bar still trumps your wife and children,” Nat said. “I _really_ need to let Laura know about this.”

Clint laughed. “She said the _exact same thing_ , okay, and she’s just glad she’s not pregnant like she thought she was, because she’s planning on getting _equally_ sloshed. We have a designated driver and everything.”

“I don’t understand how you could find someone _just like you,_ ” Steve said, “and yet, somehow, they’re of legal age for you to marry.”

“Oooh, burn,” Nat said, fist-bumping Steve.

Thor snickered. His gaze had drawn toward Jane when the conversation had turned away from Asgardian warfare, but a good joke at someone else’s expense always made the warrior pleased. Hell, Thor was known to make the occasional joke at his _own_ expense; Steve got the feeling that making people laugh was one of the small joys he found in life amidst all of the big ones. 

“All that matters is that we’re both of legal age to _drink_ ,” Clint retorted.

“I’d say you’re _well_ past that,” Thor replied. He didn’t look the slightest bit uncomfortable in his suit, unlike Clint, so Steve thought Jane had been sort of... _training_ him, or something. He never really enjoyed clothing from Earth.

“Says the _thousand-year-old demigod_ ,” Clint said, jabbing toward him with a forefinger.

“You must understand, my friend,” Thor said, earnestly, but with a twinkle in his eye. “On Asgard ages are vastly different. _Human_ years, yes, I have many of them, but on _Asgard_ I am the equivalent of, perhaps, someone who has just graduated college.” Steve didn’t know what was worse about this statement: that Thor was only newly-adult by the standards of his people, or that just a decade ago they’d been willing to hand over the reigns of their entire kingdom to a 22-year-old. 

Steve fervently hoped that Thor was fucking with them. This was always a possibility; he had, after all, been Loki’s brother, and from what Steve understood from Thor’s Asgardian buddies, the two brothers had grown up _constantly_ pranking those around them. Thor’s current favorite was to play dumb in public, pretend that he didn’t know anything about technology; the reality, of course, was that Asgard was so far ahead of Earth that it was less about _knowledge_ of tech and more about reaching back to remember this antiquity he was dealing with. 

Jane absolutely _hated_ it, but she also loved that he enjoyed helping her with her work. Every time he visited his home, now that Loki had been ousted from the throne and Odin restored to power, he found a way to sneak back some toy or gadget for her. Asgard probably didn’t know about the Prime Directive, and Steve was kind of proud of himself for remembering that little bit of pop culture.

“Dear God, you’d be the worst frat boy,” Clint said, staring at Thor in awe. “Or the _best_ , what with the unlimited drinking capacity.”

“I resent that, I can hold my own,” Nat said, rolling her eyes. Of course, that was partially the result of the serum she had to take every week, based on Steve’s own and developed by the Red Room scientists. Their own scientists weren’t sure whether she could stop taking it safely, but they _had_ found a way to synthesize it, so they didn’t have to smuggle it in from Russia anymore.

“ _None_ of you come by your alcohol tolerance honestly,” Clint said, stabbing a fork toward them each in turn. Steve didn’t think that was entirely fair; Nat was _Russian_. Almost as good for his own Irish ancestry for holding liquor. “Thor’s a god, and you and Steve both got a power-up.” He considered them and shrugged. “At least you don’t wear white suspenders. Anyway, _my_ alcohol tolerance came the good old-fashioned way; Barton family alcoholism is a time-honored _tradition_.”

“Of one generation,” Nat said, stage-whispering so the whole table heard. She was sitting closest to Clint, so the two of them began a fork-war with each other. Steve sighed; Nat pretended to be mature and responsible and to an extent she _was_ , but she was also best friends with Clint Barton, which meant there was a certain level of immaturity to be expected.

“I feel I’ve been challenged,” Thor said, looking bemused. “Only I cannot figure out how.” Once again, Steve couldn’t tell if Thor was fucking with them or not. One of these days, he’d get a read on the demigod, so alien in comparison to them, but today was not that day.

“ _No_ challenges,” Steve said, shaking his head. _One_ of them had to be the responsible one. “Not involving you or I, anyway. Unfair advantage.”

“You got that right,” Bucky said, sitting to Steve’s left. Next to Bucky, Sam also flopped down. He looked, not _miserable_ , but generally displeased to be there. He _did_ look handsome in his dress blues, but he kept tugging at his collar and Steve _knew_ he hated the things -- because usually when he was wearing them, he was attending someone’s funeral.

“But a drinking contest would liven things up,” Clint said. Steve could tell Clint thought this was a totally reasonable statement to make.

“ _How_ are you a father?” Steve deadpanned. Clint made a face at him and started making semi-lewd gestures, like they explained something.

“You see, Steven, when a man and a woman fall in love --”

He sighed, loudly, cutting the archer off. 

“No, but he has a point,” Nat said, turning toward Clint. “A drinking contest with the four of us would be an unfair test of skills.” Then she smiled, this evil smile that Steve had grown to hate a little over the years. “But we happen to have some evenly-matched participants right here.” She gestured to Thor and Steve, then Sam and Clint, and then herself and Bucky -- who also had to take a serum every week, very similar to Nat’s own.

“But -- it’s the President’s wedding,” Steve protested, weakly. 

“You can’t back down from a dare,” Bucky pointed out. That line had worked on him _way_ too many times when they were kids, and it seemed like it worked now, too. Besides, Steve knew that even good Asgardian ale left both him and Thor with, at most, a mild buzz, unless consumed in immense quantities, so he wasn’t very worried about the two of _them_.

It was just the _other_ four. Between them, their collection of deadly knowledge was extensive, and the intoxication of all four at once was probably the _worst idea ever_.

“We could officiate,” Thor suggested in a reasonable tone of voice. “After all, neither Steven nor I have anything with which to drink, ourselves.” Steve was _pretty_ sure that Thor had a flask of the good stuff in his vest pocket, but he didn’t seem inclined to point it out, and Steve wanted to thank him for it. Of course, Thor was _also_ suggesting that the two of them judge a drinking contest. At the President’s wedding.

Yeah, Thor was fucking with them.

Bucky chuckled to himself but didn’t say anything more -- he didn’t _need_ to. It was always a given he was down for a good old-fashioned drinking contest. Sam actually looked like he could _use_ a drink, and Nat hadn’t even brought out any of her knives to play with. He realized at that moment that he was thinking of them like they were his students and he, the teacher who doled out awards for good behavior, and he sighed. He wasn’t really _that_ much of a goody-two-shoes, not like the media liked to portray him, but sometimes he basically played right into their hands.

The Ultimate Boy Scout, they liked to call him. Sometimes, he lived up to it. Now, however, was not one of those times.

“I cannot _believe_ I am agreeing to this,” Steve muttered, and Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. 

“That’s the spirit,” he said, grinning at his own pun. Sam let out a theatrical groan, but agreeably stood up as the four participants rearranged themselves -- Sam and Bucky sat along one curve of the table, each across from his opponent -- Clint opposite Sam, and Nat opposite Bucky.

Sam eyed Clint, warily.

“You’re gonna have to keep up,” Clint advised him. Thor had somehow procured several bottles of the good stuff from one of the waitstaff during all of this, and Clint was lining up shot glasses. The table wasn’t overly large; Steve threw Thor a helpless glance as he took a seat perpendicular to Bucky and Nat’s staring contest. Thor sat opposite Steve, grinning as he placed a bottle apiece in front of each contestant. Steve gave Thor a pointed look, and then Thor’s grin widened before he placed two additional bottles in front of Bucky and Nat. That left one bottle of bourbon, and the demigod poured himself and Steve each a large portion before capping it back up and setting it next to him.

“ _Please_ , white boy,” Sam said, snorting at Clint, and jolting Steve’s gaze away from his own drink. “You _do_ remember I was Pararescue, right? Livers and assholes of _steel_.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Clint said, kindly, like he was verbally patting him on the shoulder. Sam’s stance went from reluctant to actively combatant.

“ _Vy ne stoite shans_ ,”* Nat finally said at Bucky. She was also lining up glasses, although she’d commandeered the full-sized water glasses from each place setting at the table. Bucky had taken half and was doing the same. 

Bucky laughed outright. “ _Pozhaluysta_ ,”** he said, the Russian coming smoothly from his mouth. “ _Vremya Otets na moyey storone, a ne vasha._ ” ***

Nat laughed at that.

Sometimes little things like this reminded Steve that he only had _most_ of his old Bucky back. The man still preferred his hair long, tied back at the nape of his neck, but otherwise most of the time it was just like those days with the Howling Commandos, or even back in Brooklyn. Until he’d do something little, like accidentally crush a weapon with his arm, or start swearing in fluent Russian, so unlike English or even the Gaelic that Bucky and Steve’d learned from Steve’s mother. Hell, it didn’t even resemble German or French, the two languages he and Bucky’d had to learn during the war.

It would make him sad, except that he was _pretty_ sure that Nat and Bucky did it purely to irritate him, which was so very _Bucky_ that it was like he’d never left. Steve swore to himself that he was learning Russian soon, Cyrillic alphabet or no. Tony, who spoke it and about ten other languages for shits and giggles, would probably _love_ to help; anything to irritate Bucky.

“Do we have to do this with _whiskey_?” Steve asked, helplessly. He took a sip of his; it was good stuff, alright, but it barely tickled going down, and he was pretty sure Thor was having a similar reaction. The other four didn’t stand a _chance_. “There’s wine, you know. It’s pretty good.” Steve was lying. He hated wine and he _especially_ hated white wine, which was what was available for the wedding.

“ _Please_ ,” Clint said. “Who the hell has a drinking contest with _wine_?”

“Thor and I are _officiating_ ,” Steve reminded him.

“I’m not sure why you’re advocating wine,” Nat said, ignoring Clint entirely. She grabbed one of her two bottles and began filling the glasses up about halfway apiece. Bucky followed suit; pretty soon Sam and Clint had begun filling their shot glasses, too. “You know wine can screw with your head worse than the hard stuff, right? _Chemistry_.” Thor chuckled under his breath; Steve got the impression that he was proud that his humans understood basic chemistry like _alcohol_.

Thor was _definitely_ fucking with them, and probably Steve in particular. He made a mental note to get back at Thor at some point in the near future. The Asgardian read English perfectly fine but sometimes had problems differentiating between similar types of product packaging. Steve decided to capitalize on this, and soon.

Bucky grinned at Steve but said nothing. Steve got a sinking feeling; that was the grin Bucky got just as he was about to do something batshit _insane_. Bucky claimed that he had no such expression, and that it was in fact _Steve_ who had the look of craziness. Steve sighed.

“Alright, then,” he said. This wasn’t his first rodeo. “Terms?”

“Ten shots, one minute,” Clint said. Then he nodded over to the serum-fueled side of the table. “Or ten drinks, whatever. One minute to finish. If you don’t puke, we do another round, and then another, until someone says uncle.”

“What does the winner get?” Nat asked, cheerfully. Cheerful for her, anyway, which meant she got that scary smirk on her face that usually prefaced someone getting their head caved in.

Everyone pondered this for a few seconds before Thor spoke up, slowly, smiling a little devilishly. It was eerily reminiscent of Loki, except that Steve had seen the prankster in his cell a mere two days ago when Thor had escorted a few of the Avengers up to meet with the Allfather about something of galactic importance, so Steve was pretty sure this was _all_ Thor.

“Access to the other’s Instagram account for the night,” the Asgardian said. 

Sam let out a whistle. “You don’t fuck around, do you,” he said, looking at Thor with a scared sort of respect. Thor just smiled, genial to a fault. Steve refused to be fooled.

“If you get humiliated, it’s your fault,” Steve pointed out to Sam. Then he smirked; after all, he wasn’t _actually_ a Boy Scout. “For not being able to hold your booze.”

“Terms accepted,” Nat said. The others also agreed, with various degrees of grumbling.

They _all_ had Instagrams and Twitters and other forms of social media, even _Steve_ ; some of them, like Sam’s, were slice-of-life posts and videos of the various Avengers doing stupid shit, with a whole huge helping of #WoundedWarriorProject hashtags. Thor, Bruce, and Steve himself also tended toward slice-of-life posts; Bruce and Steve were pretty politically-voiced as well, each having picked up causes they supported along the way. Tony and Vision mostly used their social media for PR purposes with the occasional drunk post on Tony’s. Nat barely used hers, but she had over a million followers despite only posting once every three months or so. Wanda had only one post each on her various accounts, which she’d only gotten so that no one could pretend to be her; her online presence was almost _nil_.

“Dangerous territory,” Clint said, as Steve got his phone out to start timing everyone. First, he took a panoramic picture of the five of them; Bucky to his right, followed by Sam, and Nat to his left, followed by Clint, all of them staring at each other with various competitive expressions on their faces. Across from him, Thor, who was waving and sipping his glass of bourbon with a small smile on his lips. He raised his eyebrow at Thor, who smirked.

One last picture of sanity before everything went to shit, Steve figured. Maybe he’d Instagram it to make the upcoming posts make more sense.

“Alright,” Steve said, bringing up the stopwatch app. “Ready in three...two...one...drink!”

\-------

“I am,” Bucky said, his breath hot in Steve’s right ear, “ _very_ drunk. _Na... Na samom dele v sostoyanii alkogol'nogo op'yaneniya._ Very much.” ****

“Yeah, no shit,” Steve muttered. “You lost to _Nat_. I feel like I should be disappointed, as an Irishman.”

“That woman is _terrifying_ ,” Sam mumbled into Steve’s left ear. Steve himself was supporting both of them, as they were too intoxicated to really do it themselves. At least _Sam_ won, drinking Clint under the table in under two rounds. Good thing, because any more and Steve was pretty sure both of them would’ve needed to get to a hospital. They’d had a _little_ time to sober up in the last two hours or so, because Clint’s Instagram account now featured no less than eight videos of him attempting to explain his theory about how the Loki-Sleipnir legend had come about to a _very_ amused Thor.

Laura was dealing with Clint, thankfully. She’d looked torn between annoyed that Clint’d gotten started without her, and affectionate, which made their relationship even _more_ confusing to Steve.

Nat, who was _actually_ Russian, had been able to make her way to a cab by herself, although she looked a little worse for wear. However, she’d left clutching Bucky’s phone, which had some dubious photos and videos on it of Bucky and Sam leaning into each other and singing off-key. And one of Sam giving Bucky a wet willy. Steve had absolutely _zero_ doubt that they were going to be up on Instagram within the hour.

“Trying to hail a cab with you two taking up both my arms is going to be difficult,” Steve interjected, because Sam and Bucky were now drunkenly discussing something that Steve couldn’t quite make out, but that the two of them seemed to understand just fine. 

“Sir,” a voice said, about a half a block away, but Steve heard it just fine. Then he heard the sound of Laura making an exasperated noise and turned. And then he sighed. Loudly.

“You two, just...stand here and don’t fall into traffic,” Steve said, pulling himself away from his two best friends. They sort of fell into each other, continuing their mumbled conversation as if Steve had never been there, propping each other up. 

Clint was sitting on the sidewalk, tie undone and coat having mysteriously disappeared somewhere. In between his legs he was fiddling with what looked like an arrowhead, and Steve hoped the hope of a drowning man, the kind of hope that one clung to desperately when the world stopped making sense and you were _this_ close to death. 

He hoped to every God and Goddess of every _pantheon_ , even, that Thor hadn’t happened to have one of those Asgardian arrowheads on him.

“Sir,” a police officer was saying again, trying for polite and ending up with “pissed off to the point of police brutality.” She had her hair pulled up in a tight bun that made her face even more severe. “Sir, you’re _blocking the entire sidewalk_. You need to stand up and leave.”

“I’ve almost got it,” Clint mumbled to her, waving her off. Laura, about three feet away from him with her arms crossed, actually looked _angry_.

“Sir, you need to leave or I’m going to _make_ you,” the police officer said.

Clint looked up, bewildered. “Why?” he asked, swaying back and forth. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“For starters,” the officer began, and Laura threw her hands in the air and stalked off to get a cab. If Clint managed to get back to the hotel tonight, he was sleeping on the couch, Steve gathered. The officer had begun to list the various offenses before Clint cut her off.

“What the fuck do you _mean_ , drunk in public,” Clint said, sitting upright, but still swaying. “I’m not drunk, I’m just _tired_. It’s been a - uh, a _long day_.”

“I’m sure,” the police officer said, wryly. “Either way, I could arrest you right now on no less than five separate charges, _six_ if what you’ve got in your hands there is dangerous, maybe even _more_ , so I suggest you get up, get a cab, and go _home_.”

“But I don’t want to?” Clint seemed legitimately confused and Steve briefly felt sorry for him before he remembered that this had been _his idea_.

“Last chance,” the officer said, warningly, her hand going for her tazer. Steve sighed and walked up.

“Hey, Clint,” he said, kneeling down to get on his friend’s level. “Clint. Hey, hey, look at me.”

“Steve!” Clint said, brightly. He held up the arrowhead -- thank whatever was holy, it looked like it was just one of Clint’s own. Which begged the question of where he’d been keeping it on his person all night, but whatever. “Steve, I’ve almost got it, I think I can mimic the proper -- um, proper -- you know, I think I can make an Asgardian arrowhead, it’ll be --”

“That’s, uh, that’s great, buddy,” Steve said, alarmed. 

“You know this guy?” the police officer asked, crossing her arms and shifting to one hip.

“Unfortunately,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. He looked back at Clint and gently took the arrowhead from him. It was one of the explosive ones, _how_ did that get past Secret Service, and even more worrisome, _where had Clint been hiding it?_ His pockets were all _empty_ when he walked through the backscatter scanner. Steve made a mental note to wash his hands at the soonest possible opportunity.

“Well, he has to get the hell off my sidewalk before I arrest him, friend or not,” the officer said. Steve looked up at her and she went through a series of expressions that he didn’t quite catch before she turned bright red. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You’re - you’re Captain America!”

“Also unfortunately,” Steve replied, wryly. He shifted a bit and hauled Clint up to his feet; the archer looked deeply confused by the change in position, looking all around him before his eyes landed on Steve and he grinned, patting Steve on the head. Steve was roughly a foot taller than him, so he had to reach for it, but Clint Barton was nothing if not determined and managed somehow.

“You’re a good friend,” he informed Steve.

“I’ll just...get him a cab,” Steve said to the officer. She looked caught between hero-worship and horror, but Steve just stepped to the curb, signalling the line of cabs nearest him that he’d like one. When the first in line pulled up, he shoved Clint into the back seat and, knowing from the scanner earlier that the man had absolutely _no_ money on him, gave the driver a fifty to get him to the hotel he knew Clint and Laura were staying at.

“You got a pen?” Steve asked the driver, sort of desperately. 

“I do,” said the police officer, who was still behind him, watching with every evidence of _hiding her laughter_. She extracted a cheap Bic from her breast pocket -- Steve caught the name badge, shining under the street lamp, which said “O’Connell” -- and handed it to Steve.

“Thanks,” Steve said, smiling at her. He bent over his friend, who still hadn’t passed out but looked like he was well on his way, and on the back of his hand he carefully wrote down Laura’s cell phone number and the couple’s hotel room number. He looked at the driver and pointed down. “This is his wife’s number,” he said. “And his room number at the hotel, okay?” He’d just given the guy a $35 tip, he really hoped that the driver would make sure that Clint got home okay.

“Sure thing, pal,” the driver said, looking incredulous. Steve stepped back, closed the door, and watched the cab drive off.

“Thanks for the loan,” Steve said, handing the pen back to Officer O’Connell. She grinned at him.

“No problem,” she said. Then she kind of stuttered for a second and then said, “Look, uh, can I -- if you don’t wanna that’s fine, but could we take a selfie?”

She was even shorter than Clint, but Steve appreciated that she hadn’t tazed his teammate even though he’d given her plenty of reason to, so he squatted down and obligingly smiled for the camera. It was the least he could do.

“Wow, thanks!” she said, grinning at the photo. Then she looked behind Steve and said, “Are, uh. Are _those_ your friends, too? Because I think you should probably get them home too, before I have to slap them with a public indecency charge.”

Steve whirled around; in his haste to get Clint away from what was _apparently_ the scene of a crime, he’d almost forgotten about Bucky and Sam.

Who were still upright, but only because Sam had backed Bucky into a wall and shoved his tongue down his throat.

“Uh,” Steve said, starting toward his friends. “Yeah, sorry, I -- um. Yeah, I’ll take care of ‘em. Have a nice evening, Officer O’Connell.”

She made a sort of squeaking noise that he’d come to associate with the general public whenever he made a point to use their individual names.

He shoved Clint’s arrowhead into his pants pocket, wiped his palms on said pants, and headed toward his friends. Bucky had his real hand, the non-mechanical one, up behind Sam, groping his ass, while his metal one was shoved up Sam’s dress shirt, which had become untucked at some point, the bottom hems hanging below his dress blues jacket. His uniform combination cover was sort of knocked askew, which Steve figured was probably also Bucky’s fault.

Sam, on the other hand, was sort of desperately trying to untie Bucky’s tie, a lost cause because Bucky liked to use fancy knots that made him look bigger than he already was, but Sam was giving it a really thorough go anyway. The two of them were making out like it was a mission and the world’s survival depended on mission success. 

“Guys,” he said, kinda helplessly. The two of them ignored him and he repeated himself, louder. “ _Guys_!”

Both men froze. Their eyes shot open and they both looked toward him in horror. In unison. If Steve got vertigo anymore, he was pretty sure that’d’ve sent him throwing up. As it was, he just kind of gestured at them, like, _what the fuck, guys_?

“Uh. _Heyyyyy_ , Steve,” Bucky said.

“Steve,” Sam repeated. His voice was clipped, like he thought he was about to get into a fight, which was weird because --

“Wait, no, no no _no_ ,” Steve said, shaking his head as he came to a sudden realization. “I am _not_ mad that you two are apparently dating on the sly -- rude, by the way, that you wouldn’t tell me about that. Do you guys _remember_ who testified to the Supreme Court about same-sex marriage? Cuz it was _me_ \-- I am _infuriated_ that you’re making out like teenagers _three blocks_ from the Supreme Court, in _public_ , and apparently about to hit _third base_. _Not okay_ , guys.”

Sam, at least, had the decency to appear ashamed. Bucky just raised his eyebrow, and some day Steve was going to figure out which one of them actually wanted to keep this whole thing hidden, but whatever.

“Let’s get a cab,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you two didn’t bitch about sharing a room.”

A man had his goddamn limits, and every single one of Steve’s had been reached tonight.

\-------

The next morning, Steve and Nat -- who looked pretty much the same as ever, except that she was wearing sunglasses indoors -- ate breakfast and caught up on world news. Drunks One and Two were both upstairs doing God knows what, Steve didn’t know or care to know, and Laura said Clint had made it to their hotel alright the night before, so Steve washed his hands of the whole mess.

He really shouldn’t have, because in the whole fray he’d forgotten about the terms of the contest. Apparently, sometime this morning Sam and Bucky had decided to come out to the world at large; only they’d done it via Clint’s Instagram account.

“Wow,” Nat said, looking at the screencap. “They’re lucky, if they’d caught anything _below_ their necks I’m pretty sure it’d be a violation of Instagram’s terms of service.”

“Dammit,” Steve said, letting his head hit the table. To the right, his cereal bowl wobbled uncertainly and then settled back down.

“Hey, it’ll be okay,” Nat said, setting her phone down and patting him on the head as she used her other hand to shovel scrambled eggs into her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, and smiled. “Let Tony deal with the PR this time. He’s already handling the President’s PR people.”

“That is the absolute worst idea _ever_ ,” Steve said, voice muffled. “I _like_ it.”

Nat chuckled and took a picture of Steve, still face-down on the table, before uploading it to Bucky’s Instagram account. “Hashtag warnyourfriends, hashtag wedidntneedtoseethat” she said. She set the phone back down and continued eating her breakfast, which suddenly tasted a thousand times better.

\---------------------------------

Very rough translations, as my Russian is _very_ bad so I basically went Google Translate on this shit.

*You don’t stand a chance.

**Please, as in, “oh, _please_ , yeah right.”

***Father time is on my side, not yours.

**** _Really_ intoxicated. I couldn’t find the right term for “shit-faced” so this’ll have to do.


End file.
